I'm back from internet limbo - which is a blessing. Four days from EN world, and I was getting serious withdrawal.
So, without further ado...
Morne - Part 3
Is the Archon Zhuel safe and unharmed?
Yes. He is with ME.
(Awe. Oronthon’s words – not Urthoon’s – resonate in the mind of Tahl, piercing his soul with their perfect clarity. Unexpected explication beyond a simple affirmation or denial.)
May I recall him to the world of men?
Yes.
Is the temptation of the Ahma imminent?
Temptation is ever present
(Words to generate insight, not to dissemble. Tahl feels with his whole being. New levels of truth are revealed. Layers of paradox are shed away.)
But the Duke Titivilus is here for the purpose of his temptation?
Yes.
(Grief at the Fall, aeons before. So intense that Tahl’s body shakes, unable to contain its full magnitude. Compassion, and the desire to forgive, extended even into the deepest pit of Hell.)
Can the Succubus Nehael be released from bondage?
Not by ME. She has placed herself beyond MY protection by her actions.
Will the Ahma triumph over his foes?
Only if he can determine who they are.
Will Morne suffer more?
Yes.
Will the Archiepiscopacy be reestablished?
Yes.
Soon?
He comes.
The Ahma has told me that it will be Tramst.
I will be Tramst.
(Awe.)
Lord, grace me with Your wisdom.*
Not all truths are unequal. Remember that I love you, Tahl.
Tahl wept, as the Longing of Separation descended upon him.**
**
Eadric sat in full harness upon Contundor and observed as his troops formed themselves into their companies. Around him, the wreck of the encampment still stood: rags of canvas hung limply from broken poles, and belongings that were less than essential lay strewn around. He had ordered that the army had broken camp as quickly as practicable: speed was of the essence.
The air was unnaturally still as a result of Nwm’s interference in the prevailing storm – which, according to the Druid, still had three hours left to blow. The Paladin’s mood was bleak, as he contemplated Tahl’s words, and he hardly paid attention to the Inquisitor, or to Brey, or to Soraine; all of whom sat upon horses nearby.
Not all truths are unequal.
Curious words, framed in a double negation that was almost Urgic in its construction: a kius, as the heretical mystics named it. Somehow, he felt that he could not connect with the phrase, and his stomach was still an empty pit, which turned every time he considered Nehael.
He watched idly as he observed Iua and Nwm approach, flying from the west towards him. The Auran steed upon which the Duelist rode moved gracefully through the air. The Druid, in aquiline form, was flanked by Sem and Gheim – apparently a mated pair, although Eadric was still unsure which was which, and what their respective sexes were.
Ortwin, disguised by a glamour, reined in next to the Paladin. “Have you ever seen a goat ride a horse before?”
Eadric scowled. He was not in the mood for levity. “Where is Mostin?”
“Contemplating Goetic mysteries,” Ortwin replied lightly. “Are you sure about this Ed? Is your judgment sound?”
“Who knows? I still doubt – although I regard that as a good sign. But I am tired, Ortwin. I long for this to be over.”
“And Nehael?”
“I can do nothing. I’m not yet ready for the confrontation that would entail. I don’t know if I ever will be: I am, in the final analysis, mortal.”
“I’m not,” the Bard grinned. “And I am no longer bored. I have decided to live for at least a million years: circumstances permitting, of course. Beware of becoming too heavy, Ed. It isn’t worth it.”
The Paladin raised an eyebrow. “Now is hardly the time for platitudes, Ortwin.”
Nwm landed nearby, and assumed human shape. “The corridor is open,” he said. “And you have twelve hours on the enemy, at least, before they can recover from the tempest. But it’s quite a gambit.”
Eadric nodded, and motioned to Hyne. The Herald’s trumpet rang out, and the call was taken up by a hundred more.
**
Tiuhan IV, the Boy King, met with the Small Council in the audience hall of the Royal Palace in Morne. Sihu, the Duchess of Tomur; the Lord Chamberlain, Foide of Lang Herath; Attar, the grizzled Warden of the North; Skilla of Mord, recently arrived in the Capitol; a dozen other knights and captains of renown; and the Bishops of Gibilrazen and Thahan. Jholion, the Marquis of Methelhar, was noticeably absent – he and the small cadre of soldiers that he had with him were under close scrutiny. As Brey’s paternal uncle, Foide had recommended Jholion’s exclusion on the basis of dubious loyalty.
Water fell from a great hole that been ripped in the roof by the winds of the previous night: the rains had passed, but enough water remained in pools among the twisted tiles to provide a constant drip. Conversation was tense and agitated.
A raid by the Uediian rebels. Tagur missing. Rumours of the Heretic’s presence in the city, only hours before. A storm of immense proportions, either started by the Pagan, or suppressed by him – stories were conflicting. The Druid moving through the wounded, healing them. The Druid invoking pagan magic to assault a group of Templars. A rain of fire from high above Morne. Dragons, Rocs, Shapeshifters. An Earthquake, striking the Temple itself, but leaving the rest of the city untouched.
Some had reported seeing celestials. Others, demons.
The Bishop of Gibilrazen, as usual, had a skewed but not entirely misplaced opinion.
“You doomed yourselves by dealing with the demonist, Rimilin,” he half-mourned and half-gloated. “I warned you of as much. Now Oronthon has abandoned us: the legions of heathens and blasphemers are moving upon Morne. The ground shakes, fire falls from the sky, demons and dragons assail us. Archons sound their trumpets to herald the end of the world. Who can now doubt that the Trempan Heretic is, in fact, the Adversary? Prayer is our only recourse.”
Sihu shook almost uncontrollably at his words, overcome with pious guilt.
Foide sighed in an exasperated fashion.
“Unless you have something positive to contribute, my Lord Bishop, I suggest that you refrain from further remarks. The Heretic is less than a day away, and according to Griel is already marching on the city. His sorcerers have subdued the storm to allow him access: otherwise, it rages around Morne in all directions – save above the city itself.”
“What of my Uncle?” The boy piped. “Has any news reached us yet?”
“No, your Majesty. I regret not. But his men are only a week away. If we can stave off the Heretic, they may bring succour to us. And with my own troops and those of the Duchess nearby, we stand a good chance.”
“Can your diviners not Scry Tagur?” Attar growled. “I was under the impression that was a relatively simple exercise.”
“They have tried,” Foide replied glumly. “Alas, to no avail. Nor has Daunton contacted me.”
The Lord Chamberlain lied well. But with his own son, Durhm, already in the field with six thousand men, it suited his purposes that the troops from Einir remain leaderless for the time being.
After much debate, the watches on the walls were doubled and redoubled, barrels of pitch were readied, mangonels and ballistae were armed, and squadrons of troops were prepared within the walls.
Attar sighed. The primary defense of the city would fall to him, and he didn’t like it one bit. Morne had five miles of walls – around twice as much as the Warden was comfortable with. The fact that the Heretic had no engines of war was of small consolation.
He had the Druid. Oronthon help us all.
**
Hullu cursed. Wind screamed around him.
“What do you mean, he is moving on Morne?” The Tribesman yelled. “That is impossible. This storm is impenetrable.”
“Nwm has quietened the weather about Morne.”
Hullu cursed again. “Can you do the same, Honey-Paw. Or bring a spirit to delay him? I must reach the city before him.” Melancholy was urging the warrior to action, and Mesikämmi recoiled in uncertainty.
“It is too late,” she said. “Your troops cannot meet his Templars in open battle, they will be crushed. And I cannot prevail against Nwm in a straight contest.”
“And what of the other sorceress?” Hullu snapped. “Where is she?”
Mesikämmi shrugged. “She is doubtless attending to other business: we are not joined at the hip.” She didn’t know. The Shamaness had still not told Hullu the truth about the Succubus – at least the truth as she perceived it, which was less than the full story in any case. “The storm will pass in a matter of hours. No assault will be forthcoming until later, or more likely tomorrow. What does this cause that you fight for mean to you, Hullu?”
Her question made his mind rock. The Sword goaded him, but his loyalty and responsibility to those who had sworn to follow him weighed on his mind. He felt the irony of his situation – that Nwm, who had set the course of events in motion, had rejected him.
“You spoke of ‘great things’ for us,” Hullu said. “There was a time when I thought that such desires were past me. Then they were reawakened. Why are you here, Mesikämmi? What do you want?”
“I want to help you to get whatever you want,” she replied openly. “To win you back again.”
Her naïveté was sometimes staggering, Hullu thought to himself. She could coerce, manipulate and plot with the best of them, and her sense of ethics was perverse in the extreme. He would never understand her – but then again she was a shamaness, a witch, a dream-speaker. The things which motivated her were beyond his ken.
“So. What do you want?” She asked.
Hullu thought long and hard.
Had the Succubus Chr’ri been present, Mesikämmi may have used a different tact – the Demoness, after all, had advised guile in dealing with Hullu.
But Chr’ri was with Chomele, Kalkja, Rimilin and Uruum. They had been joined by a second Balor, named Irzho. Graz’zt was less interested in the possibilities that Melancholy offered, and more concerned with the broader issues, as the nodality began to develop a new facet. That, and an overwhelming desire to hurt Eadric: deeply, profoundly, again and again and again.
Before he was killed, he must be utterly broken.
**
Prince Tagur struggled northwards through the forest. The winds, which had blown ferociously for twelve hours, showed no signs of abating. Trees had been stripped bare, boughs ripped off, and the less firmly rooted toppled over. Debris filled the air. His progress was painstakingly slow, and his head and body were bloody and bruised from a dozen impacts.
Abruptly, and without warning, the storm ceased – or rather the Prince entered a zone of calm air. He raised his eyebrows. How strange. Behind him, the trees still shook under the force of the tempest. Ahead, nothing moved. It was eerily quiet.
Tagur took a moment to inspect his wounds, and noting that nothing looked too serious, plodded on. Branches lay scattered around but, with a feeling of exhilaration, he began to walk briskly, then to trot, and finally to run pell-mell through the trees. He was alive. He was free. Whatever happened after this day, he would take a joy in it. He had been dour and preoccupied for too long. He thought of the administrative burden that his life had become, and then thought of his resourcefulness and cunning – qualities that had long remained dormant, only to be manifested when he had been backed into a corner.
He thought of Hullu, whom he decided that he quite liked. He thought of roasting boar and baking bread. He thought of Nwm, who had recognized him but had said nothing, and grinned to himself.
After an hour, the trees began to thin, and gradually gave way to commons used by pig farmers in the open woods. He stumbled across a track running to the northeast, and his heart leaped – he hastened along. Morne. Morne must be close.
Finally, the woods ended. He climbed a low bluff, and gazed northwards over twenty furlongs of rich farmland, at the whitewashed rampart of the city. Steam and smoke rose in columns from inside the walls – there had been fires, probably the previous night. But it was not the smoke which made Tagur swallow in concern.
Between himself and the curtain wall, was a vast cavalry. Tagur knew the blue and silver banners of the vanguard, although sagging in the windless air, hid a three-headed phoenix – Eadric’s device.
His joy evaporated, quickly replaced by the tactical perspective of his trained military mind.
He lay down, keeping his profile low, while he decided what to do. At least he would be safe where he was.
Except that, ten minutes later, he noticed that several eagles were descending towards him.
Oh, bugger, he thought.
*
Tagur watched the eagle in the centre of the trio grow as it flew towards him, its wings stretching out until they were a full eight fathoms across.
He glanced back towards the woods, and sighed. It really wasn’t worth even thinking about it. All three birds landed nearby, and the downdraft from the largest was terrific.
“Nwm, I guess?” Tagur said with a resigned voice.
The bird squawked loudly. Unexpectedly, one of the other, much smaller eagles spoke.
“Good afternoon, your Highness. I am Sem. Nwm regrets that he cannot use speech at present,” it said. “He also appreciates the irony of the situation.”
Nwm squawked again.
“He trusts that you are well, and did not suffer too much at the hands of Hullu’s men. He is willing to fly you into the city, if you wish.”
Nwm made a curious croaking sound.
“He also says,” Sem added, “that Eadric would like to speak with you – should you so desire. Note that you are under no coercion.”
The Prince scratched his head. This was becoming an increasingly surreal day. “Alright. Whatever.”
Nwm screeched.
“You may hold onto his claws,” Sem instructed. “He will endeavour not to drop you.”
“Good,” Tagur replied.
*
When Eadric received Prince Tagur, it was around six o’clock in the evening, on the ninth day after midsummer. The Templars – around six hundred of them – had been drawn up in two huge kanistas less than a mile from the southern and western walls of the city. Behind them, Trempan aristocrats were loosely arranged in a riot of colour with their mounted men-at-arms, and Temple auxiliaries ordered their lines. Both flanks were guarded by the lightly armoured but ferocious (and notorious) Ardanese horsemen.
More troops were arriving from the northeast – Templars, armoured aristocrats and mercenaries - and the Ardanese roared and banged their swords upon their shields at the return of their leader, Olann. Sercion began to form his troops into a third kanista.
“The infantry are still half a day away,” Eadric said to the Prince, “in case you were wondering.” The Paladin dismounted and bowed in a cursory fashion.
“Isn’t it rather late in the day to be beginning an assault?” Tagur asked. “And what do you propose to do – knock down the walls with your lances? I assume you haven’t forgotten that they are twenty feet thick?”
“Nwm has agreed to facilitate entry, if it is necessary. I will attempt a final parley first. I wish merely to be allowed unhindered access to the Temple compound – as is my right as Grand Master.”
“The legitimacy of that title is questionable,” Tagur remarked drily.
“You could speak to them, Tagur. Allow this to pass without bloodshed.”
“I am not about to act as your message-boy,” the Prince replied, “whatever your present intentions are. Deorham, my concern is that if you enter the city, some other spiritual imperative will descend upon you. Oronthon will ask you to take control of Morne, or he will instruct you to arraign the Small Council.”
“That will not happen,” Eadric grimaced.
“Are you so sure?” Tagur retorted. “What if you had some new ‘revelation?’ Deorham, for what its worth, I actually quite like you, and your crazy Druid friend. But that doesn’t really mean much in the current political climate. I have responsibilities to the citizens of Morne. If you enter the city, there will be bloodshed. Innocents will perish. There will be rape, murder, looting and burning. It is a war. It always happens, no matter who leads the troops, or whatever their stated values are.”
“Not this time,” Eadric was adamant.
Tagur sighed. “You are naïve and idealistic.”
“Ask them to open the gates, your Highness.”
“I will not.”
“Then at least bring my proposal to the Royal Council. Advise them as you will, but allow the others to vote on it. I beg you, Tagur.”
The Prince groaned and nodded. “I will vote against you, and counsel the others to do the same.”
“That is you prerogative,” Eadric replied. He turned to his squire. “Tatterbrand, fetch another horse. We will escort Tagur to Morne.”
**
“Where the hell have you been?” Foide snapped at Rimilin of the Skin. “And exactly what did you think you were doing at Hrim Eorth? You agreed to only target Nwm with your spells.”
The Acolyte stood before King Tiuhan, Foide, Sihu, Attar and half a dozen other nobles, as well as the Bishops of Gibilrazen and Mord. He was flanked by a young girl, perhaps twelve years old.
“I miscalculated,” Rimilin lied, looking contrite. “For which I offer the council my profound apologies. I will suffer the consequences of my actions when the Wyrish wizards indict me.”
“Why do you bring this urchin before us?” Sihu asked.
“Not an urchin, your Grace: a simple child from Morne. An innocent who is typical of those who would perish if the Heretic enters the city.”
“I hardly see the point of bringing her here,” Foide snapped. “Or have you simply taken her under your wing: does she have nowhere else to go?”
“I hope to appeal to the Heretic’s better sense,” Rimilin said slyly. “Once he was a great champion, whom few of us here would question. Since his seduction by the dark powers, however, he has fallen into vain and evil ways. But none of us are without the potential for redemption. Perhaps when he sees this child, and others like her – unsullied, and without guilt upon them - he may be struck with remorse.”
The Bishop of Gibilrazen could not believe his ears. “You, an accursed demonist, have the gall to say that? You are utterly despised, Rimilin. You are base, faithless and irredeemable. You have fused with some foul thing from the Pit.”
“I am loyal to Morne, and to my King,” the Acolyte bowed. “You and I may have differing perspectives, your Eminence, but we do not necessarily differ in our need for stability and security.”
“You are a canker, Wizard,” the Bishop retorted. “Whom even the other cankers in Wyre will not deal with. You are an accursed liar, although I don’t know what your scheme is. And that girl is likely some whore from the Abyss, or some innocent whom you will sacrifice. You will sell us all to the Adversary, who has assumed the guise of Eadric of Deorham.”
“Silence!” The Acolyte screamed, apparently losing control. “I could obliterate every one of you here, if I so chose. However,” he seemed to master himself again, “I do serve my King, and I am loyal to Morne. I will do as you bid, your majesty.”
Tiuhan, unused to being addressed directly rather than through an intermediary, stammered self-consciously.
“You will address the Council, Rimilin,” Foide said.
The girl looked at Tiuhan.
Tiuhan looked back.
“I-I think we should allow Rimilin to speak with the Heretic,” the Boy King said.
“Your Majesty…” Foide began.
“No!” King Tiuhan said, surprising even himself. “I have made my mind up. Rimilin will speak to the Heretic.”
Foide sighed. What harm could it do? And anything was preferable to this pious hysteria from Gibilrazen.
**
The embassy – which also served as an escort to Prince Tagur of Einir – consisted of Eadric, Tahl, Tatterbrand, Brey, Soraine of Trempa, Jorde, Hyne, seven of the eleven Penitents and Ryth of Har Kumil. Nwm flew overhead. Mostin, Ortwin and Iua observed events from afar in a secure shelter which the Alienist had erected. For a variety of reasons, none felt that they had anything to contribute to the negotiations, although they all maintained a keen interest.
Privately, Ortwin had determined to jump through the mirror again if required – in the full knowledge that Mostin would probably never speak to him again if he did.
Horns sounded, the South Gate of the city opened, and a squad of twenty knights rode out to meet the Ahma and his party. They bore the standard of the Gultheins – the golden boar – surmounted by the eighteen-pointed crown of the kings of Wyre. Eadric recognized the armour of their leader Attar, Warden of the North, and gave a small sigh of relief. Attar was known for both his equitableness and his pragmatism. In the middle of the group, the Paladin noted a young man on a grey palfrey and three children on ponies. He scowled. Most irregular. He readied himself in the event of something unforeseen.
Mostin, gazing through the mirror of Urm-Nahat, saw only three children and a riderless horse. He became fidgety. “I smell a rat,” the Alienist said to Ortwin.
“An invisible rider?” Ortwin suggested.
“Perhaps,” Mostin responded. He muttered a spell, and vanished.
Iua looked at Ortwin, who shrugged.
“I’m still here,” the Alienist said. He pushed his own invisible head through the mirror above the royal embassy, in the knowledge that if there was an invisible rider upon the horse, Mostin would see him or her with his magical sight.
A young man, whom he didn’t recognize. Not invisible, though. Must be warded from scrying.
Rimilin? Whoever it was, he was looking at another sensor nearby, which Mostin immediately perceived. He looked down again.
One of the children was looking straight at him. She can see me.
A force pressed upon his consciousness, coercing him. “Why not tickle Eadric?” It suggested. “Remember how he likes the tickly sensation of disintegrate?”
Mostin shook off the spell, pulled his head back through the mirror.
“Very fishy,” his mind raced as he said it. “It might be Rimilin, and he might have demonic allies with him. One of them just suggested that I disintegrate Eadric.”
“Demons disguised as children?” Iua asked. “That’s pretty cheap.”
Mostin shrugged, and began to buff.
“Hey, what about the Injunction?” Ortwin asked.
There was a pause as the Alienist finished casting a Haste spell. “Rimilin is fair game. He is in contempt himself. If it is the Acolyte, then I’ll blast him as soon as he makes a move.”
“Let’s just take him out now,” Ortwin suggested.
“If, Ortwin. If.”
“We should warn Ed, in any case.”
Mostin nodded, and refocused the Mirror, before thrusting his head through again. The Alienist’s disembodied voice sounded in the ears of Eadric and Tahl.
“The man on the horse in the middle may be Rimilin. The cute kiddies might be Succubi, or worse.”
Eadric sighed.
*
As the reception committee approached to around forty yards, Eadric motioned to Tahl, who concentrated through the Eye of Palamabron and invoked its True Seeing ability.
The blood left his face. “Demons,” he whispered hoarsely and swiftly. “Two Balors and a Succubus. Several Glabrezu on the Ethereal nearby. Rimilin – disguised by a spell.”
Eadric cursed, and reined in. “Flee! Disperse!” He yelled. “We are ambushed.” Quickly, he turned to Prince Tagur. “Ride for your life, and pray!”
Everything seemed to happen at once, and with blinding speed.
Rimilin, who had anticipated getting closer – at least to within Eadric’s ability to sense the Demons – nonetheless acted first. Fire leapt from his left eye in a narrow shaft, reducing Soraine, the elderly Duchess of Trempa, to a cinder. It was not the tack that he had planned, but plans change, the Acolyte mused to himself. An empowered Fireball followed in quick order.
As if on his cue, a lurid purple Fire Storm ravaged the area to the left of the Paladin, immolating horses and riders. One of the children, who had continued urging her pony forwards, stopped and gazed briefly at Tahl the Incorruptible.
The Deputy Inquisitor crumpled into a lifeless hulk.
Mostin, acting with magically enhanced speed, stepped through the mirror and disintegrated the Balor Uruum, disguised as a child. Its true form flashed briefly across the vision of those present, before its aeons-long existence was snuffed out.
The explosion upon its demise was terrific, and fire ripped across the field.
Reeling from the force and heat, Mostin invoked a quickened Polymorph Other upon Rimilin but failed to effect him.
Eadric spurred Contundor forwards, charged past the burning royal standard, the bewildered Attar and the few knights who remained alive, and smote one of the other children – the Balor Irzho – with every iota of strength that he possessed. It screamed: an unholy noise, issuing from the mouth of a young girl. Black ichor sprayed from it, and it reflexively wreathed itself in comforting flames.
As he rode past, the succubus Kalkja, disguised as a twelve-year-old girl, flung a small iron box at Eadric before Teleporting away to safety.
Rimilin was struck full force by a Thunderswarm which issued from Nwm’s talons. Although warded, the Acolyte still reeled from the blast.
Time to go, I think, and he vanished. A fraction of a second later, Irzho also disappeared, even as Iua and Ortwin were preparing to engage.
Eadric, burned and blistered, turned Contundor, and rode slowly back to look at the carnage. Few still stood. Soraine was dead, and Tahl, and Ryth, and Hyne. Brey, unremarkably, still lived – at any other time Eadric would have appreciated the irony of the apparently unkillable Templar. Tagur also still stood, although his wounds were severe.
Tatterbrand! No, not you as well! But he still breathed, if barely. Eadric layed his hands upon him, and warmth and light flooded into his squire. Attar, unhorsed and charred, hobbled forwards.
“I did not know…” he began.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eadric said grimly. “They will always find a way. You are blameless.”
The reality of it was dawning on him. Tahl was gone. He could barely bring himself to look upon the corpse.
And then, the final affront. Ortwin walked up to Eadric, holding the small casket that Kalkja had hurled at the Paladin. The Bard was shaking. “I’m sorry, Ed.”
Inside, on a velvet cushion, were a pair of lips, cut from a face, and still fresh with blood.
Eadric turned away and vomited.
When he raised his head again, he saw a single tall, elegant figure dressed in black walking slowly towards him.
“It is time,” Titivilus said, almost gently.
**
Four Devas, Jewels in the celestial host and paramount warriors of the Order of Powers, accompanied Tramst, future Primate of all Wyre, as he Wind-Walked from Ardan to Morne. They were alert to the possible presence of fiends: their Marshal, Enitharmon, had instructed them to exercise particular vigilance.
Tramst, who carried a mandate from Heaven, brought a new teaching. It was based on neither unity, nor difference. It did not deny Orthodoxy, nor Ardanese practice, nor the Transaxiomatic philosophy, nor Reconciliatory Sophism, nor even the Irrenite Heresy – the most controversial of the Oronthonian factions. Tramst had taken the premise of the Urgic Mysitics, and in three months had stripped it of its inconsistencies, refined it, and through a succession of revelations had determined the best way to communicate his apprehension.
His system was dubbed saizhan, ‘insight.’ It denied the ultimacy of any and all external phenomena associated with Oronthonianism, and advocated direct, unmediated contact with the Fundamental. It was supported by a dialectic of negation designed to stimulate awareness which replaced the scala mystica that contemplatives had previously employed for centuries.
Oronthon, aware that his own church, divided against itself, could not endure unless it was changed, had decided to overhaul it. His solution was radical.
His Breath, the Ahma, had been the agent to accomplish the initial breakdown of reason necessary for the foundation of the new practice. But he merely foreshadowed Tramst.
His Mind, his Sela,*** would be Tramst. In order to repair his house, Oronthon needed to oversee the builders himself. In order to allow unmediated contact with the Fundamental, the Fundamental would be present.
Previously, the Archbishops had borne a bright spark of divinity: they were Oronthon’s vicars on Earth.
But Tramst, Oronthon’s proxy, would be an incandescent beacon.
*It is customary for Clerics who Commune with Oronthon to leave their last question ‘vacant’: the Bright God may dispense wisdom as he sees fit.
**The Longing of Separation is the profound sadness experienced by the querent after the intimate connection of Communing ends. More generally, it occurs after any mystical union.
***Without getting too deeply into Oronthonian theology, the Sela is the “Gnostic Intellect” of God – that aspect of Oronthon which mystics and contemplatives relate to.
Note: The names of the celestials who accompanied Tramst were Urlion, Shoonel, Ruma and Diol - Astral Devas of great prestige and influence. In general, Devas represent the “muscle” of Oronthon: Urlion and his peers were of particular reknown.
p )
